


To Drown In Lethe

by bottleredhead



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Fire, Greek and Roman Mythology - Freeform, Human!Enjolras, M/M, Mild Gore, Occupy Paris, mermaid au, merman!R, there might be some violence later on
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-13
Updated: 2013-08-27
Packaged: 2017-12-19 08:39:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/881740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bottleredhead/pseuds/bottleredhead
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A hypocritical part of him whispers that a slow, landlocked death is immensely pleasurable as long as it keeps those larkspur blue eyes on him. The mostly-silent self-preservation part of him protests, but the barest hint of a smile on Enjolras’ face every time he stashes the flask without opening it is enough to silence the voice once more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was meant to be a short, indulgent merman!R fic that just sort of spiralled.
> 
> This has been edited thoroughly by lightjolras and listening-for-woodworm. Any mistakes are my own, and I love them for putting up with my nagging. You rock, guys~

Enjolras doesn’t need to coerce them to get them to join Occupy Paris, for they are more than content to participate in the protestations on their own. Well, most of them, at any rate. Grantaire is not really sure why he’s there; rallies and sit-ins aren’t really his thing. The spurned idealist in him yearns to participate and rally, yell with his loudest voice until he’s hoarse and the feeling of achievement is coursing through his veins hotter than the burn of whiskey. The jaded cynic in him however… ‘scoffs at such blatant idealism’ would be putting it mildly.

He doesn’t do much during the two weeks they storm the streets of Paris and camp in them during the hot nights. Enjolras flutters about, yelling in a mic one moment and creating liaisons the next. Joly takes up with the other doctors and nurses in the clinic areas, patching up those who need it and lending medical advice when incapable of helping otherwise. Bossuet, Marius and Eponine quickly learn how to wash pepper spray out of their eyes with milk, dispersing through the crowds with countless others to help do just that and distribute the knowledge to those who are caught unawares. Combeferre and Courfeyrac socialise on a smaller scale than Enjolras, spreading the word about Les Amis and would you like to join the cause? Bahorel, of course, stays near the front lines, engaging in brawls with the policemen who get too close and teaching those who make up the vanguard with him how to land a solid punch without breaking their thumbs. Jehan, poet that he is, leads many of the chants, spending most of his time with the others of his trade, creating beautiful poetry and art and songs to keep up the morale.

And Grantaire… he’s expected to join the artists, so he does. For a while each day, he creates signs and paints the scenes of brutality side by side with the absolute humanity of the protesters. It’s beautiful if not haunting in quality, and those who see the paintings say so as they side-eye Grantaire contemplatively, as though disbelieving that such a scruffy and unkempt man can be the source of such splendor.

All the while he tries to ignore the ache in his bones. His ears buzz with the call of the Mediterranean, floating along the coast of La Rochelle. His mind fills with images of L’Ile de Riou, Marseille and Côte d'Azur during the nights. Sparkling blue waters flood his lungs with each tormented breath as he sleeps, waking him up with its phantom presence and the dry pain of air dragging against the lining of his unaccustomed lungs. He hyperventilates into wakefulness each morning, drinking copious amounts of water each day so his skin does not flake. Alcohol is, of course, ten times more effective at keeping him alive than water, but each time he sips from his flask, Enjolras’ glare intensifies. A hypocritical part of him whispers that a slow, landlocked death is immensely pleasurable as long as it keeps those larkspur blue eyes on him. The mostly-silent self-preservation part of him protests, but the barest hint of a smile on Enjolras’ face every time he stashes the flask without opening it is enough to silence the voice once more.

The tea Jehan pushes into his hands on a regular basis staves the waves in his abdomen long enough for him to function throughout the day. It helps that the occupants of Paris open their homes to them to allow them showers. Baths are out of the question – there isn’t enough time for such indulgence (necessity though it is for Grantaire) and there’s always someone waiting for their turn. He can just imagine the disappointment on his friends’ faces if he disallows others the chance of cleanliness for the time being.

So he tries not to wither away underneath the summer heat, smoking cigarettes that only serve to irritate his lungs even more despite the catharsis of lighting up each one.

* * *

 

The smoke clogging his lungs and making breathing impossible wakes Enjolras up. He’s barely had the time to sit up in confusion before Combeferre is there by his side, hauling him to his feet. At the touch of his best friend, the rest of the world filters in and Enjolras can hear the screams coming from all sides. There’s yelling and shouting too, as well as the loud noise of stampeding feet.

“What’s going on?” he asks as Combeferre drags him out of the tent and through the frantic crush of bodies.

“There’s been a fire!” Combeferre yells back. When they reach an area less crowded, a body slams into theirs from behind, jarring them to the ground.

“Shit, we need to get out of here!” comes a familiar voice, and then Grantaire is pulling Courfeyrac off them and helping them to their feet.

Enjolras turns to Courfeyrac and Grantaire, eyes roving the air around them in search of their friends. “Where are the others?” he demands.

Before the sentence is fully out of his mouth, Grantaire is already taking off in the opposite direction of safety, hoodie-clad back quickly disappearing in the smoke. Courfeyrac makes to go after him once he realises what Grantaire already has – Jehan is missing, a flower-patterned scarf in his hand instead of the poet’s. Combeferre latches on to him before he gets too far.

The billowing smoke is thick around them; the sound of screams are lost as people run around in search of family, friends and acquaintances. Somewhere far away, Enjolras can hear the sirens of fire trucks and ambulance cars.

“Courfeyrac,” Combeferre is murmuring, grip unrelenting on his friend. “You can’t go back in there! Grantaire will find him. No, listen to me-“ The bespectacled man’s eyes plead with Enjolras to help, so he steps forward, arms securing Courfeyrac’s. “We can’t lose you in the melee too, you won’t be helping anyone that way!”

Courfeyrac slumps when he realises the truth of Combeferre’s words, the fight going out of him at the thought of being a hindrance to his beloved Jehan. Enjolras tightens his grip just in case, shifting to include Combeferre into a crushing hug that turns them into a six-legged blob as they anxiously wait for their friends to emerge from the smoke.

Emerge the do, blackened, covered in soot and accompanied with the smell of singed hair. Otherwise, they seem to be in order. Jehan is resting heavily on Grantaire, drowsy but conscious as his once-long braid smokes slightly where it’s been singed off. Grantaire, for his part, seems mostly unharmed. His hoodie is no more, probably used to extinguish the fire that caught on Jehan’s hair. His arms are bare and a lick of angry red spreads across the side of his right bicep.

Courfeyrac breaks free of them the moment he spots the duo, running to Jehan and smothering the poor poet in his chest as he hugs him with a fierce determination glaring in his eyes. They stay locked like that for a while, Jehan’s purple-tipped fingers digging into Courfeyrac’s hair. The whole scene is so intimate that Enjolras has to look away, and that’s why he notices Grantaire collapsing to the ground.

The dark-haired artist crumples in on himself, his body wracking with violent coughing spasms that shake his very core. His hands claw at his throat as he coughs, furiously expelling dark air from his lungs in between desperate gasps for air.

Springing into action, Combeferre drops next to Grantaire. He extracts a bottle of water from his ever-present bag, presenting it to him with a soft “R?” Without turning to face him, Grantaire accepts the water, chugging half of it before breaking into a coughing spasms again and choking. Immediately, Combeferre’s hands pound on his back.

Enjolras is snapped out of his daze of watching the display when he hears someone call his name. Joly’s hands rest on his shoulder as he tries to ascertain that he’s alright, and Enjolras can see the rest of his friends behind the med student.

“I’m fine,” he manages to say. His voice is hoarse from the smoke. “You need to go check on Grantaire.”

Eponine is clutching on to Gavroche as though he’s a lifeline, one hand in his and the other curling over his shoulder. Bahorel and Feuilly are supporting a woozy Bossuet, Musichetta trailing behind them as her hands flutter, unsure of what she should be doing to help. Marius is on the phone, probably reassuring Cosette that he’s fine if the tone of his voice is anything to go by.

“What’s wrong with R?” Gavroche quietly asks his sister, blue eyes wide with worry for his friend.

Eponine flounders for an answer, staring helplessly at the coughing boy and the two med students trying to assist him. “I don’t know, honey,” she says, just as quietly before directing her next question to Combeferre. “Shouldn’t he go to the hospital?”

Coughing punctuates her sentence, adding emphasis. “No,” Grantaire groans weakly. “No hospitals.”

Joly glares at him. “What happened, exactly?”

Enjolras steps forward, kneeling next to the trio. “He ran back into the smoke to get Jehan. But Jehan was in there for longer than him yet he’s fine-”

Feuilly adjusts his hold on Bossuet. “Maybe he has asthma?”

In response, Grantaire shakes his head. Black curls fly as the movement turns into more coughs, his shoulders shaking with the force of the tremors. “I’m fine!” he insists. “Just get me to my apartment.”

“Are you crazy?” Enjolras rails. “You just inhaled a fuckton of smoke by being a heroic idiot, you’re going to a hospital.”

Combeferre’s hands find Grantaire’s shoulders. “R, he’s right. Basically, oxygen levels are really low in your body right now. We need to get you checked to make sure you don’t have any kind of cardiovascular condition that can be worsened by excessive smoke inhalation.”

A small smile tugs at Grantaire’s lips. “I’m already a seasoned smoker, ‘Ferre, some fire smoke won’t do me much har-” His words are cut short when he throws himself to the side, vomiting on to the dirty ground.

The sounds of his retching turns Enjolras’ stomach. He throws his hands up in frustration, saying sarcastically “oh yes, you’re just fine.”

“Shut up,” Grantaire murmurs when he’s done, the others having politely averted their gazes. He struggles to his feet, batting away Combeferre and Joly who try to help him up. “I’m fine,” he wheezes. “And I’m going home. The paramedics, just in case, should check Jehan over. He was in there for a long time,” he gestures to the smoke still billowing a little ways behind them.

“You’re insufferable! Just go to the damn hospital.” Enjolras doesn’t know why he’s so incensed by Grantaire’s callousness about his own health, but a fire has started in his belly and the smoke that is still making it difficult to breathe won’t dampen it.

Grantaire levels him a stare. “I won’t.” The effect is ruined a little by the cough that claws its way up his throat. His hands, soot-dark and burn-marked, rise to block his friends’ view of the dark air escaping his mouth. Combeferre notices anyway, eyes narrowing in concern.

“That’s unnatural,” he remarks. “Irritation is to be expected but you’re still coughing up smoke. How is that even possible?”

If a look of panic crosses Grantaire’s face, it is fleeting and no one notices. He tries to take a step forward, but his knees buckle the moment all of his weight is placed on one foot, prompting Enjolras to catch him before he slams into the ground.

“Maybe it’s because I’m a smoker or some shit. My lungs must be damaged like fuck by now, eh?” he chuckles. No one else acknowledges the attempt at lightheartedness, choosing instead to focus on the fact that Combeferre is worried – and Combeferre is only worried when things are serious enough to warrant the little eleven that forms between his brows.

Enjolras shifts them so Grantaire’s arm is around his shoulders and his own arm is wrapped around Grantaire’s waist. “Look-“

But he’s already shaking his head. “No hospitals, no paramedics, nothing. I’m going home, and if you won’t take me there then I’ll find a way to get there on my own.” It’s not as though the doctors and EMTs will tell him anything he doesn’t know. He’s always been different – he doesn’t need their confirmation as well.

Enjolras lets out a long-drawn sigh. “Fine, I’ll take you to your apartment, you stubborn idiot.”

A real smile graces Grantaire’s face. “Thank you, Apollo,” he murmurs before allowing his eyes to shut for a moment of reprieve.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed!
> 
> Comments and kudos very much welcome :) find me on [tumblr](http://enjolraspermitsit.tumblr.com)!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It goes a little like this: a mad girl makes a prophecy about god and goddess, god and goddess meet, they fall in love, they have children, the goddess perishes and her loved ones are left behind to pick up the pieces.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh, I'm so sorry it has taken me so long to post this! This chapter has been written for a really long time now, but was just fully beta-ed a little while ago - full thanks goes to [Jenny](http://j-j-k.tumblr.com) and [marvelousactually](http://marvelousactually.tumblr.com) for going through this for me.
> 
> For those of you unfamiliar with Roman mythology, there are a few things to keep in mind and that are important to know for some of this chapter to make sense. You can find them in the end notes.
> 
> This chapter is more of a filler, though we get a glimpse at Grantaire's parents and childhood. Stuff also happens in this chapter that are necessary for the big reveal in the next chapter, so bear with me.
> 
> Enjoy!

When Grantaire was a child, he would yearn for the shore. He would dream of being where the people were without the prefix of mer, of walking on two legs and letting air through his nose to flood his lungs. He would wonder if breathing like a human tickled; his gills didn’t, but lungs were different than gills. And when he became antsy, too restrained in his tight-knit merfolk community, his mother would persuade him to accompany her on an expedition into the deepest trenches of the Mediterranean.

His mother was referred to as the Saltwater Queen back then. Salacia was beautiful, divine and ethereal, even more so than other mermaids. Her tail was a deep, shifting kaleidoscope of colour that gleamed even in the darkest depths of the trenches Grantaire used to visit with her. The almost fluorescent colours tended to shift with her mood, and it was the most magical thing in the eyes of a fledgling merman. Her eyes matched her fins, taking on the hue of the surface of the Mediterranean on summer solstice: bright, electric and so blue that it almost hurts to see those same eyes reflecting back at him in the mirror. The underlying silver flare of mermaid shone through her eyes as though they were porous rock, and when the sun hit them just right, they would shine brightly enough to momentarily blind a human.

Grantaire didn’t inherit his mother’s tail, instead taking on his father’s colouring in that department: a steady silver with the faintest sheen of green. Neptune had always been grounding whereas his wife was flighty, a shark to her playful dolphin.

His parents’ union was fated, one of the last oracles to be professed by Cassandra of Troy herself. And of course, because Clotho, Lachesis and Atropos were and continue to be wicked (but always, always fair, a lesson Grantaire learned the hard way) in their dealings, Salacia and Neptune’s union was as doomed as each of Cassandra’s prophecies.

It goes a little like this: a mad girl makes a prophecy about god and goddess, god and goddess meet, they fall in love, they have children, the goddess perishes and her loved ones are left behind to pick up the pieces.

* * *

 

Enjolras watches as Grantaire shifts in his seat, a frown creasing his eyebrows as though caught in a bad dream. A cough strangles his throat every minute or so, each one sounding more haggard than the one before it and each one accompanied by a little cloud of black smoke. Enjolras’ nerves are wrecked from jumping every time Grantaire coughs.

Unhelpfully enough, they’re stuck in traffic. The only cab Enjolras has managed to hail is old and decrepit, with rolling windows and an air conditioner that refuses to work. The air outside is nowhere near as smoky as their burned-down camp grounds, but the sky shivers with little heat waves emitted from the many motor vehicles, oxygen sparse and each lungful clogged with exhaust fumes.

Leaning forward, Enjolras rolls the handle that lowers the partition that splits the cab in half. “How much longer until we get out of this traffic?”

The driver barely glances at him in the mirror glued to the dashboard. There is a cigarette clamped between the fingers of the hand he’s dangling outside the window, as though that will stop the stench of burning tobacco from permeating the cab. His tan speaks of hours spent driving busy Parisians and wonderstruck tourists around the city, as do the lines around his seemingly perpetually frowning mouth. “No telling. The police blocked off many exits because of the fire.”

Unsatisfied and getting more worried by the second as Grantaire’s expression contorts into that of someone in pain, Enjolras rolls the partition back up. The quiet groans of discomfort escaping Grantaire’s open mouth cause his own mouth to tighten. He should’ve listened to Combeferre and dragged the fool to a hospital, instead of taking him to his fucking flat.

The irritation that pooled in his chest as he argued with Grantaire after the fire flares up with each hitched breath of Grantaire’s. Even though the man’s eyes are closed in sleep, his eyebrows are drawn together, lips parted to show gritted teeth. A bright flush is high on his cheeks, similar to that of a fever, and sweat dots his forehead.

“Fuck,” Enjolras swears, snatching his hand away from where he’d pressed it against Grantaire’s skin to check for a high temperature. Grantaire’s skin isn’t hot; it’s both blazing and freezing to the touch, which shouldn’t be physically possible.

Enjolras wracks his brain trying to remember what to do when someone’s running a fever, but finds himself incapable of doing so because panic is rising in his chest, clawing its way up his throat until he wants to scream. Because _fuck_ , what will happen to Grantaire if he doesn’t bring the fever down as soon as possible? Is this even a fever if his skin is icy cold as well as fire-of-Hades hot? Shit, shitshitshit, Combeferre should be here, he’d know what to do.

Belatedly, he remembers his phone stuck in his back pocket. He can call Combeferre and ask him what to do until they’re not stuck in traffic anymore.

“Enjolras? Is Grantaire okay?” Combeferre asks in lieu of a greeting, voice worried and still smoke-roughened.

“He’s burning up, ‘Ferre, and we’re stuck in traffic. I can’t remember what to do!”

Combeferre’s voice is soothing amid the panic clouding his every thought and the constant litany of _ohGodisGrantairegoingtodie_.

“Calm down, or you won’t be doing either you or Grantaire any favours. If he’s got a fever, then he needs to cool down. Crank up the AC, make him take off any clothes he doesn’t need. You can’t do much while stuck in traffic, I’m afraid, but it will be enough to tide him over until you can get him some meds.”

Enjolras tosses the phone aside, hands reaching to grip the hem of Grantaire’s shirt. The sweat-drenched cloth separates easily from the undershirt underneath, and in one fluid movement Enjolras has Grantaire’s arms bare. The white undershirt, soaked through, clings to Grantaire’s well-defined chest, showing off hints of tattoos spreading from Grantaire’s abdomen to his sides. Enjolras’ eyes follow the barely-visible lines up to where they curl around ribs and – holy fuck, is that _blood_?

Dark red stains spread across where four of Grantaire’s ribs should be, impossible to miss against the white of the undershirt. There isn’t much blood, but the sight of it is a shock to Enjolras’ system. With shaking hands, he carefully rolls up the undershirt, having to tug a little to separate the fabric from the wounds, which are sluggishly oozing blood.

“Fuck,” Enjolras swears softly, staring at the four gashes running parallel to Grantaire’s ribs and curving across his side. Each bloody slit is gaping open a little, showing off smooth flesh as they move rhythmically in a way that reminds Enjolras of fish gills. Blackening blood crusts around the edges, the way it would in an infected wound. He can see four matching cuts on Grantaire’s other side.

His eyes drift upwards from Grantaire’s chest, briefly meeting Grantaire’s open eyes – which are more silver than blue, strangely, and shining so very brightly that he has to close his eyes against the stab of pain in his pupils. Immediately, he can feel a clammy hand against his jaw, and Grantaire is murmuring “sorry”.

The pain abates enough to allow him to peer through narrowed eyes at Grantaire, who has his own eyes closed, though his careful breaths indicate that he is still conscious. “Grantaire? You’re hurt. I need to take you to the hospital.”

The hand on his jaw tightens momentarily before drifting upwards to grasps at his hair. “No,” Grantaire groans. “I can’t. Please, I need to go home.”

“But you’re bleeding!” Enjolras yells, surprised, prompting the driver to eye them both critically in the overhead mirror.

Grantaire doesn’t respond for a while, but his hand tightens on the strands of hair he’s managed to hold on to almost to the point of pain. He sucks in a lungful of air before spluttering it out with a wince as the wounds on either side of his chest get pulled at. “Can’t. Home. Please, Benthesikyme. Acta non verba, domum me.”

Grantaire continues to mumble, eyes closed and brow thick with sweat. The words don’t sound like normal fever-induced hallucination gibberish; there is a cadence to each word, almost as though Grantaire is talking in another language.

It is only when Grantaire murmurs, “Apollo me erit, curaturum, Benthesikyme,” that Enjolras’ brain kicks into overdrive. He translates the Latin with a little bit of difficulty, unused to it’s archaic form, but warmth blossoms in his chest when he realises what Grantaire is saying to this phantom Ben-something person he’s talking to.

The driver is looking at him expectantly, and Enjolras realises that he’d started to roll down the partition. “Take every shortcut you can to reach our destination in the shortest time, please,” he tells the driver, settling back in his seat to watch Grantaire.

Grantaire trusts Enjolras to take care of him, and that’s what Enjolras is going to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Important things: 
> 
> 1) Salacia was the female divinity of the sea, worshipped as the goddess of salt water who presided over the depths of the ocean. She is the Roman version of the Greek Amphitrite, the sea-goddess and wife of Poseidon. Salacia isn't actually a mermaid, though she is in this fic. 
> 
> 2) Neptune was the Roman god of freshwater and the sea in Roman religion. He is the equivalent of the Greek Poseidon. He was not a merman, though he is in this fic.
> 
> 3) Salacia bore Neptune three children, the most celebrated being Triton, whose body is half man, half fish - hence merman.
> 
> 4) Considering the above, Grantaire is Triton. We will find out more about him and his home (a golden palace in the heart of the sea) later on.
> 
> 5) Neither Salacia nor Neptune actually die in Roman mythology, but that has been changed for the sake of this fic. Their love isn't prophesied by Cassandra of Troy, either. All of that is me taking creative license to add juice to the story - Salacia and Neptune's marriage does, however, have a very interesting story behind it, which will be integrated into the fic in later chapters.
> 
> 6) Benthesikyme - who is she/he? Is she/he real? Why is Grantaire talking to them in his hallucinations? Enjolras will find all of that out - and get to see Grantaire transform - in the next chapter.
> 
> 7) Clotho, Lachesis and Atropos are generally known as the Moirai (in Greek mythology), the Parcae (in Roman mythology) and the Fates in English. They controlled the metaphorical thread of life of every mortal from birth to death. They were independent, at the helm of necessity, directed fate, and watched that the fate assigned to every being by eternal laws might take its course without obstruction. The gods and men had to submit to them.
> 
> Translations of the Latin used:
> 
> 1) "Acta non verba" literally translates to "actions not words," but Grantaire uses it to mean "less talk, more action." "Domum me" means "take me home."
> 
> 2) "Apollo me erit, curaturum, Benthesikyme" means "Apollo [Enjolras] will take care of me, Benthesikyme."
> 
> The Latin is a little iffy - I had to use Google Translate for most of it.
> 
> And that's it for end notes! I really hope you enjoyed this chapter and am looking forward to your comments.
> 
> Find me on [tumblr](http://enjolraspermitsit.tumblr.com)!


End file.
